


Consequences and Work To Do

by arecumbentibus



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of religion, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 03:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11661183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arecumbentibus/pseuds/arecumbentibus
Summary: so, instead, jake holds her gaze and knows --- even in the clandestine stunned silence that lingers in the room --- amy santiago will always wait for him.more importantly, amy santiago will always fight for him.





	Consequences and Work To Do

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've been working on and off on this work for the past couple of months as it takes place immediately after the season 4 finale. 
> 
> I had put it off for the last month and a half, but tonight in a final sprint of passion I was able to "finish" it. I say "finish" only because it could be added onto in the future, but we'll just have to see about that. 
> 
> Regardless, I hope y'all find enjoyment in this fic!

when jake lets “coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool” pass his terse lips, he is the only one in the entire courtroom who knows just how accurate he is actually being; somehow, in the span of less than a minute, all of the warmth has left his body and dissipated into bitter cold.

 

what he really wants to say?

 

_“this isn’t supposed to be how it goes.”_

that same thought stings in amy’s mind, her breathing coming out short and the ringing in her ears causing her to momentarily reevaluate if the “guilty” verdict is legitimately what the jury delivered.

 

she shifts her gaze, and though it hurts her more than any pain she has ever endured or imagined in her nightmares (that jake always laughs her out of, that jake always kisses her out of, that jake always talks her out of), amy looks him in the eyes.

 

jake drops to his chair, keeping amy in his sights and _seeing_ she is crying.

 

she is crying and he cannot walk across the courtroom and wrap his arms around her, his ames, and tell her that everything is going to be just fine.

 

he cannot hold amy close and crack a joke about how the mafia, florida, and the golden gang were never going to be quite enough to keep them apart.

 

so, instead, jake holds her gaze and knows --- even in the clandestine stunned silence that lingers in the room -- amy santiago will always wait for him.

 

more importantly, amy santiago will always fight for him.

 

scrubbing away her teary eyes, she can make out his determined demeanor and the firm handshake that rosa and jake share, a small nostalgic academy phrase passing between the two of them before they are shuffled off into opposite directions by the bailiff.

 

amy steals one more look at the back of jake’s head and then turns to holt, terry, charles, and gina.

 

_they have work to do._

 

* * *

 

“how’s the food?”

 

“well, let me put it this way: i would rather eat multiple helpings of your mashed potatoes any day, ames.”

 

jake chuckles, more guttural than usual, before stopping short and holding onto the telephone receiver harder.

 

he sighs, lightly, before continuing on a different line of thought. “i keep on telling the guys that they really need to upgrade this place --- maybe put in a few iPad and iPhone booths, allow FaceTime _and_ visitation time, you know, together. so far, my petition has not been read by any judge yet, but i’ll keep you up to date on that.”

 

there is a twinkle in his eye; a shine that can not be dulled by wearing an orange jumpsuit (jake routinely calls it his version of a romper) or eating mystery meat that is almost certainly not kosher.

 

despite herself, amy laughs. she will tell herself later that it was because it was much easier than crying, but honestly? she wants him to see her at her best --- she wants to be able to give that to him.

 

they talk about the intense heat in new york and how gina’s future enigma/enigmo is coming along.

 

(the first time amy told jake that’s what his niece or nephew was going to be called, she thought he was going to cry. instead, jake gave two thumbs up and requested that jacob at least be on the table for the kid’s middle name, which gina denied before not-so-stealthily adding it to her potential middle names list later in the day.

 

amy never brought it up with gina again.)

 

then things turn to the case, code-named “get rosa and jake the fuck out of dodge #0yearsnot15years” before amy can stop herself, a trait that has only recently snuck up on her.

 

“and how’s rosa?” jake’s voice is pleasant, perhaps even breezy, as he looks out of his side of the glass barrier with his real innocent face.

 

amy opens her mouth, positioning herself to tell jake all about the difficulties that the women’s prison has had to handle when it came to rosa diaz. most notably, that she _does not_ do orange and was and is not at all about the living in pods “hippie bullshit” on the first day _or_ the fifty-first day when the shrill bell rings out, effectively ending their visitation session.

 

quickly, jake sticks out his hand and presses it against the glass and, obliging and not at all thinking about the countless hours of _star trek_ that they had watched together, amy puts her hand against his, wishing more than anything that she could feel his skin for real.

 

“i love you. so so much.” he mouths through the glass before taking his leave through the iron-clad door with an officer (a _fellow officer_ if amy had anything to say about it.)

 

resigned to jake’s departure, she leaves the building and walks slowly to her car before sliding into the driver’s seat and beginning to drive north west.

 

in a sudden but fluid movement that nearly makes amy loose grasp of her steering wheel, a large masculine figure pops up in the backseat.

 

“do you believe we are being followed or tracked right now, sergeant santiago?”

 

she only looks in his direction briefly before saying “no” and merging into the left lane.

 

holt inhales and pulls himself up taunt before exhaling sharply.

 

simply, he says, “we know that your apartment and desk at work are both being monitored very _diligently_ but we are unable to approximate any other locations. do you have any additional theories to share?”

 

they spend the next half hour hashing out ideas, the pair deeply invested in the outcome of this case, deeply rippled by the gigantic boulders crashing into their family pool --- for them, “guilty” did not ever mean stop.

 

later, amy would think as she often does:

 

_yes, indeed._

 

_we have more work to do._

 

* * *

 

the first time it happens amy is more frustrated and angry at herself than hysterical at the situation.

 

after all, how did she not see it coming? why was her world suddenly spiraling into nearly constant unpredictability? she tilts her head back, replaying the seconds-ago phone conversation in her head:

 

“hello?” amy’s voice was rough and covered with grogginess.

 

a quick glance at _their_ bedside alarm clock had told her it was just after 4 o’clock in the morning.

 

“is this amelia santiago?” a sterile and emotionless voice replied.

 

amy set up and immediately turned on the light beside her, the stark luminescence blinding her pupils in the same second the words, “yes, this is her” left her chapped lips.

 

_was she jacob peralta’s preferred emergency contact?_ apparently, yes.

 

_did she know where the nearest hospital to the jail was located?_ unfortunately, also yes.

 

_could she arrive at the hospital in the next hour?_ obviously, yes. in fact, she was already shedding her pajamas and slipping into her most comfortable jeans and t-shirt --- she had a feeling she’d be needing them today.

 

amy walks off-center from her --- _their_ \--- apartment complex and texts gina, suddenly not caring what bastards might be tapping into her phone and only thinking about one thing...

 

jake was a cop. jake was a detective. jake was a _good_ detective. jake put people away, sometimes for life.

 

jake had enemies beyond figgis.

 

and those enemies could only wait so long before the urge to punch and hit and taunt and _hurt_ and _antagonize_ became too overwhelming.

 

and orange jumpsuits did not come with ready-made bulletproof vest or any other types of protection.

 

and, again, _she should have known_.

 

the train ride over is living in the motions and scattered with unmemorable faces and events that do not stick in the mind for long.

 

at the hospital, amy chooses to take the stairs as she’s caught in both a ride that she definitely wants to get off of and yet, stay on forever.

 

finally?

 

all too soon?

 

room 214-B is exactly at her eye level.

 

angry tears threaten to topple over the rim of her eyes, but she swallows them onto her stinging throat and pushes the door open.

 

the first rays of the sun rising glow through the window above jake’s bed, casting light onto the way too many wires and cords and IVs that are attached and stuck into jake’s arms and body.

 

worse still, there is a snoring officer sitting in the chair exactly outside the room where jake lays inside, his chest rhythmically rising and falling with each fragile breath he takes.

 

(did they really think him capable of fleeing with a bashed in face and at least two broken ribs?

 

amy can hear holt’s voice in her head, commenting that this was “only protocol” but as the days and weeks go by, she is finding herself even less thrilled with “established procedure” when she can personally see just how pedantic it all is.)

 

once more, tears threaten to leak from her eyes to only fall, forgotten, on the white tiled-floor.

 

and nearly, they do.

 

but then he says her name.

 

or that’s at least the only word amy can properly decipher from the garbled alphabet soup that comes out of jake’s mouth.

 

she goes towards him at once, taking the distance of ten steps in just one, before grasping his right hand with her own and trying to remember how to breathe.

 

voice cracking, amy says, “i’m right here, jake. right. here.”

 

up close, she can see the dried blood stains marring the corners of jake’s mouth and the bruising running from across his black eye to his slightly more crooked nose.

 

amy runs her fingers through his frizzy locks before leaning down to give him a much-needed kiss on his forehead.

 

fluttering, jake’s eyes open once, twice, three times before closing once more. in these short moments, the whites of his eyes look so big and his pupils look so small, scared, and lost.

 

echoing her own feelings as of late, amy clings to him --- she has not spoken to god in years, but now she sends thoughts of assurance, hope for salvation, and the decaying belief in the system that has landed them both here in torrents to whatever or whoever lays up far above the sky, above even the universe.  

 

in that moment, in that hospital room, at six o’clock in the morning, amy prays and thinks of little else but her old childhood cathedral and jake’s sweet laughter that rings in her ears like wind chimes in the summer time --- a different ringing from what she heard in the courtroom.

 

tears prick at her eyes and this time she lets them fall; allows the levy to break, just a little.

 

and then he squeezes her hand so softly and so quickly that she almost misses it, almost thinks she’s made it up. only, she is suddenly reminded by raised voices outside the hospital door that she is amy santiago and what defines her entire framework on life? goals and work.

 

still crying, she waves at her incoming found family and whispers to jake, barely audible: “don’t stay lost too much longer. _we’ve got work to do_.”


End file.
